|
 Denise munches on a melon breakfast aboard Jungle Diver. |
It was quite a windy morning, and the relatively calm conditions in the sheltered bay gave way to rougher water once we powered our beyond the headland. Only those who absolutely had to move to the back of the boat for vomiting purposes dared stand or try to walk around in the pitching and rolling boat. It took us about an hour to reach the proposed dive site on the reef, only half the time it would have taken had we taken a trip to a dive site from Cairns. The waters around the dive site were a little less choppy, but still dark and grey and nothing like the sky blue swimming pool water I had been expecting. I could see the reef around us, a dark mass that extended in all directions and was covered by no more than a foot of water in some places. Peter the skipper had to be careful not to drift onto one of these shallow shelves and do a Captain Cook job on the bottom of the boat, so he kept the vessel under power through the deeper passages with which he was most familiar. The rest of the crew had Denise and I and the other certified divers suited up and tanked up in no time. The ease with which we prepared for the dive was in luxurious contrast to the tortuous trials of our diving course in Sydney. Those shore-based dives had involved long barefoot treks across sharp rocks, not unlike a Lough Derg pilgrimage, but with heavy oxygen tanks instead of dry toast and muttered curses instead of fervent prayers. On the "Jungle Diver," our gear was handed to us, we were helped while putting it on, taken by the hand to the rear of the boat, and the crew even bore the weight of our tanks while we were standing at the stern waiting for the signal to slide into the water. I was happy to be spoiled.
 Jungle Diver's GPS-plotted course from Cape Tribulation and the location of our dive site. |
The coral was not as brightly coloured as I had expected, but during lunch one of the Peters told us more about the reef, including the trivia titbit that the bright colours seen on postcards of coral have been falsely enhanced - the natural colours of the reef centre around brown. We didn't touch the reef at all, since only the first few millimetres of coral is alive and it is easily damaged. The surface of the coral is made up of tiny plankton-eating and photosynthesizing polyps which harden when they die, laying down an extra layer of calcium-rich coral on top of the existing reef, resulting in continuous growth and evolution of the organism. The guide did allow us to touch some soft coral, which grew as incredibly smooth and silky long-leafed plants that danced slowly in the shifting current.
The brightly-coloured fish generally steered clear of our bulky and ungainly masses as we approached, but one or two fish approached me, either curiously or defensively, until they realised how large I was and darted away. I got quite a thrill out of slowly approaching shoals of fish and then quickly jerking my hands and fingers towards them, as if I was a sorcerer casting a spell. They would instantly dart away in all directions into a hiding place in the coral or to a spot out of my reach, where they would resume their nonchalant cruising as if they weren't really concerned at my presence at all. In addition to seeing the fish up close, I was captivated by the underwater sounds - the density of the water meant that even the quietest sounds were audible, even though it was impossible to tell the location of the source. I could clearly hear fish nibbling at coral, and I kept looking curiously about trying to match a particular nibble with a fish. After what seemed like ten minutes but was in fact almost 30, our oxygen supplies were dwindling so we swam back towards the boat and resurfaced. Excited by what we had seen, Denise and I decided to try snorkelling while other groups were completing their dives. Our decision to stay swimming was influenced by the fact that it was actually warmer in the water than on deck, where a fresh breeze stripped the heat from wet bodies and damp wetsuits. Snorkelling, however, proved difficult in the choppy conditions. The saltwater frequently splashed into the snorkel, causing inhalations
 Enjoying the comforts: A hot shower aboard our dive boat. |
We ate an unremarkable lunch while listening to an interesting presentation by Peter the helmsman. He passed around a sea slug for our examination and I was amazed by its resemblance to a flaccid and slimy cucumber, which is a poor indication of the regularity with which I clean out my fridge.
Our second dive was a drift dive, meaning that the route we took underwater was one-way; the boat moved off once we had descended and anchored again at an agreed spot to which we estimated the current would take us during the thirty minutes we would be underwater. All of the certified divers and their guides had to jump quickly from the stern of the boat during a window of 10 or 15 seconds while it was still under way; if the engines had been shut off the boat would have been pushed out of the narrow channel onto the treacherous reef. Although we had been well briefed and given appropriate safety instruction, the added danger of the boat's spinning propellers injected an extra thrill to the dive - I felt like we were a team of crack commandos being dropped into enemy waters on some covert reconnaissance mission. I almost asked one of the crew if there were any harpoon guns on board that I might use if we were set upon by an unexpected enemy patrol. Before I got the chance however, Peter sounded the boat's horn as a signal from the cockpit to dive and we quickly frog-stepped in waves of four from the stern into the sea. Resurfacing and watching the boat pulling away, I wondered if real commando's noses stung as much as mine from too many false inhalations of saltwater.
 Unidentified exotic fish. |
When we got back to PK's, dinner was already in progress. With an appetite big enough to accommodate several shovelfuls of pizza, I showered and headed over to the takeaway with Denise. Salivating freely, I unhesitatingly ordered us a large Supreme with all of the toppings, but my eager request was met with a blank stare from the pseudo-gothic nose-ringed girl behind the counter.
"There's no pizza left," she said apathetically.
I was stunned, but recovered quickly.
"What's that then?" I asked, pointing to another customer
nearby who was picking up a large flat box reeking of pepperoni.
"That's the last one. There's no pizza left."
She didn't try to apologise. She didn't need to. It wasn't as if I could storm away in disgust ranting that I would take my business elsewhere. Dinner was already over in the PK's bar, and there was no other food to be had at Cape Tribulation unless I went a-hunting in the forest. Beaten, I ordered a pie and chips. Denise was even less impressed and opted for chips only, preferring to leave the pie's suspicious gravy-drowned filling to me. We cheered ourselves up with a tin of fruit we had stashed in the kitchen, and washed it down with a jug of happy hour beer. A rat scampered across the grass in front of the kitchen while I was chewing on a sweet piece of pear and I pulled the tin closer. I may have missed out on pizza, but I certainly wasn't going to lose my dessert.
Humbling Horseride, Daintree Digression
Sunday, August 2; Cape Tribulation - Cairns
We were up for horseriding at 8am. Denise and I assembled with eight others in the reception area and were directed to the stables by a smug young lady who I thought looked remarkably like the no-pizza girl from the previous evening. "Go across the road, along the verge, up the hill, follow the path, cross the stile, through the long grass, into the gully, over the stream, up to the fence, stick to the track, climb the gate, under the trees, around the bend and you're there. You can't miss it. If you forget the directions, follow the smell of horseshit."
We were dismissed. I rather thought that the lady herself exuded enough horseshit to completely mask any possible aids to navigation, but I followed the other backpackers through some forest and across a couple of fields until we came across a corral and rickety stables. The rainforest had not yet encroached into this area, where open meadows and low bushes contrasted with the dense forest from which we had emerged. Two semi-settled backpacker girls in the stables had us classify ourselves as beginner, intermediate or advanced level riders, and assigned us horses accordingly. Denise and a British girl made up the advanced contingent. I gave myself an intermediate rating and was matched with a chestnut called Charlie. After a girth-adjusting party, we filed out of the corral in single file, advanced riders in front, followed by intermediate and then beginner riders. Our guides took the front and rear positions. As we made our way down through the fields and forest towards the beach, I got to know Charlie a little. Charlie was on the last day of a month long stint as an active horse, after which he would rest in the paddock for a month. He had been carrying tourists like me along the same route twice a day every day for the last 30 days. He was used to plodding along in line, following not only the track, but the gait of the horse ahead of him. The trail through the rainforest were so well trodden from constant riding that it was muddy and corrugated from hoofprints. Initially I thought that it was my excellent horsemanship that was keeping Charlie in line, but I was seriously mistaken. Charlie was on autopilot. His legs were moving below me, but his mind was elsewhere, probably dreaming of his upcoming paddock leave. He was completely oblivious to my guiding tugs on the reins as I discovered when we emerged onto the beach and I tried to get him to paddle in the shallow water. This was obviously a break from union-approved routine, and Charlie was having none of it. He plodded along the sand well clear of the water's edge. Showing him who was boss was more difficult than I anticipated. Tugging at the reins until his head was facing the ocean had no effect, for he continued to walk parallel to the water in an awkward-looking but unperturbed fashion. Perhaps he was trying to impersonate a crab, but he avoided the water as if he was a cat.
Five minutes later I discovered that Charlie wasn't completely opposed to getting into the water, but that he was only used to getting wet according to the schedule. Our guides invited us to dismount, unsaddle the horses, change into our swimming gear, and lead our mounts into the ocean for a swim. Charlie reluctantly accepted this as a trying part of his day's work, and after a few initial protests we made it successfully into the surf. I waded and swam forward with one hand clutching the reins, and Charlie bore down on top of me. The trick to guiding a horse into water is to stay in front of its head.
 Enthusiastic Dave, not so enthusiastic Charlie. |
 Denise and Misty. |
We made it back to PK's in time for lunch, after which we caught one of the buses back towards Cairns. Our convoy stopped for some strangely flavoured but delicious ice-cream in Daintree along the way, and we went for a brief hike alongside the whitewater of Mossman Gorge. We also took a guided cruise on the Daintree river in a wide and flat-bottomed boat. Our guide was a knowledgeable middle-aged man who was so good at pointing out near-invisible creatures along the riverbanks that I grew suspicious - either the animals were plastic (few of them moved as we passed) or they were getting a commission from our guide for appearing. Even when the guide pointed out the creatures, it took quite a bit of staring to distinguish them from their
 Kiss me, I'm really the Prince of Daintree. Seriously. |
Back in Cairns, Denise and I hit the Woolshed for another cheap dinner deal. We wandered around the night markets and hovered over several puzzle stalls trying to get the ball off the chain, the rope off the block and the peg through the loop. We had some successes with the puzzles but had no intention of buying anything. Having to carry your purchases across a continent for two months is a real disincentive to souvenir shopping. Denise thought that she might have to buy when she managed to break a wooden ring on one of the handmade puzzles that she was playing with. Breaking the ring in two was one way to get the rope out of the ring, but we feared it was not the approved method. Her efforts to place the pieces together and prop it quietly on the bench without the stall owner noticing weren't working. She owned up to her crime, and in true "honesty is the best policy" fashion, the guy tut-tutted, produced another ring from beneath the counter, and let her off. We celebrated with ice-cream.
Wearisome Washing, Wandering, Woolshed
Monday, August 3; Cairns
Sleep-in day. Laundry day. By the time we had those two essentials out of the way, it was lunchtime and too late to do anything except wander around the town. That's the thing with Cairns. There is nothing to do in the town centre during the day except eat ice-cream and shop - we found little of interest within walking distance of our hostel. Most of the activities which attract tourists to Cairns begin early in the day and involve travelling out of town. I was tempted to catch the shuttle and try bungy jumping from the AJ Hackett site a few miles northwest of Cairns. They had a weekday special running which offered thrill seekers unlimited bungy jumps all day for $99. Those who were suitably daring could bungy jump forwards, jump backwards, slide off the platform, swan dive, ride a bicycle over the edge, walk off on their hands or try any other toys or crazy ideas. I got as far as the ticket office on the Esplanade and made inquiries but in the end I decided to save my money and my adrenalin for the higher canyons of New Zealand which we proposed to visit later in our trip. Having jumped a couple of times before, I was more obsessed with height than technique, although when it came down to it, I was petrified of excesses of both.
Sitting at a bench on the esplanade waiting for Denise, I found myself in the middle of the Cairns' unofficial used car market. The parking spots were filled with dubious-looking vehicles which looked as if they had covered more miles than Apollo 11's lunar orbiter. The panels of rust on some of the cars were only outdone by the layers of character evident in others. Some of them would have travelled around Australia several times under several different backpacker owners. If cars could talk, these specimens would doubtlessly have plenty of tales to tell. Closest to me was a colourful VW combi van and a battered-looking Holden estate. Their owners lounged about restlessly, eager to do business with anyone who could take the vehicles off their hands. The girl selling the Holden asked everyone within a hundred yards of the car if they were interested in buying it. There were no takers. Who knew how many days (or even weeks) she had been there peddling her car, or how long more it would take before she sold it or gave up? I had heard first-hand accounts of how great it was to have your own car to travel around in, and how it was sometimes possible to sell a car for more than you paid for it, but I had also come across people who spent weeks desperately trying to sell their vehicle to regain enough money so that they could continue their travels. Looking around the anxious faces on the Esplanade, I was happy that Denise and I had chosen to travel by bus.
While wandering around a mall next to the marina, we came upon a bar/restaurant stocked with Elvis Presley memorabilia. I had become quite a fan since visiting Graceland, his house-turned-museum in America the previous year, and Denise had since been infected with my enthusiasm. The restaurant was quite empty, so we shuffled around the tables and booths as if we were visiting a museum. For a small establishment so far from Elvis' haunting ground, the restaurant had a lot of great stuff in the collection, including a gold-coloured 1968 Cadillac Eldorado that Elvis owned for many years until it failed to start one day. Suspecting that the car was past its prime, he shot it like a veterinarian would put down a wounded racehorse. The perfect bullet hole in the front wing was as well preserved as the surrounding paintwork. Fortunately for Elvis, he had several dozen backup cars and was saved from having to run for the bus. He gave the Eldorado as a gift to Priscilla's stepfather and took the pink Cadillac instead.
By this stage we were becoming regulars at the Woolshed.
We went for our final super dinner deal that evening. I wolfed
down a large, sweat-inducing lamb madras curry, after which I
had to lie down on a bench outside in the square. We hit the
night markets again and ended up at another puzzle stall. We
dazzled the other customers by instantly solving the puzzles
we had seen solutions to the previous evening at the other stall.
I could tell they were impressed. I got a little caught up
in my own false streak of genius and tried to do the classic
Towers of Hanoi puzzle to seven levels. For a while I was racing
along without hesitation but I somehow lost my concentration
and soon became confused. The guy behind the stall smugly assured
me that the puzzle could be solved in 127 moves. After about
500 moves I realised that I was getting no closer to a solution
so I cursed and shuffled away. The only thing that made me feel
better was that Denise had fared no better, and that she had
managed not to break anything.
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